


MORE THAN WORDS

by Wolfiekins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sam, Episode: s05e01 Sympathy for the Devil, M/M, Male Slash, Marking, Season/Series 05, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform, established wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is free, Bobby's gravely injured, and Sam wants to own up to his part in jump-starting the Apocalypse.  But Dean won't have it, and Sam's at a loss as to what to do or say.  Continuation of 5x01 "Sympathy For The Devil".</p>
            </blockquote>





	MORE THAN WORDS

**Author's Note:**

> **  
>  **   
>  _Disclaimer: I own neither the SUPERNATURAL franchise nor the characters. No offense intended nor monies made through this presentation. For entertainment purposes only._   
>  _Written many moons ago._   
> 

_**MORE THAN WORDS** _

Dean's words bounce around the inside of your head like angry bowling balls.

_“I don't think I can trust you.”_

It tore you up bad when he called you a monster... but this... _this_ is ten times worse. 

More like a thousand.

You stand in the middle of the parking lot, still unable to believe what he's just said.

_“I don't think I can trust you.”_

One helluva sucker punch.

Realization creeps in that you're not really surprised. That you've been expecting it.

Dean might've been acting like everything was okay, but deep down, you knew that he wasn't.

His words totally threw you for a loop because you were still flying high after what Bobby'd told you. 

God, you'd needed to hear that! 

Even after you figured out that Bobby'd been possessed back in the hotel, you'd needed to hear it. 

Something, _anything_ to let you know that even though you'd totally fucked up, somehow, someone understood. 

You can't imagine how Bobby'd been possessed in the first place.

Had he been so preoccupied worrying over you that he'd been slack? 

Sloppy?

Probably. 

_“Lose my number.”_

Another mistake of yours. 

One more mis-calculation. 

And Bobby might not walk again. 

A total, complete clusterfuck.

You've heard people say that words can be sharper than knives; now, you understand. 

You believe them. 

You _know_.

_“We can never go back to what we were.”_

You watch as Dean strides over to the Impala. 

He spares you a quick glance, and for once, you haven't a clue as to what his expression means. 

You can't read him, and that's bad. 

Your heart's pounding like crazy, a deafening noise filling your ears like the roar in a multitude of sea shells. 

Dean pauses for a second before whipping open the driver's door and climbing in.

You're stuck, frozen in place, as if the asphalt under your boots has turned to glue. 

You remember to breathe, hoping to all Hell that you don't look half as screwed up as you feel.

The Impala fires and her lights blaze on, but you just stand there, transfixed, frighteningly unsure of what to do. 

_Think! Work the problem!_

You stare at the Impala's taillights, noting that the outboard bulb on the passenger side is burned out.

Again.

You were supposed to order another wiring harness.

_“I don't think I can trust you.”_

But was it really just that?

_“Lose my number.”_

A demon may have uttered the words, but their aim was true. 

The demon had been right, Bobby _should_ lose your number. 

You've brought about Armageddon. 

The End of The World. 

You let Lucifer out of his Cage.

How the fuck could you have believed that a simple _“Sorry”_ would make up for that?

Dean revs the Impala.

You need to move; somewhere, anywhere. 

You _know_ where you _want_ to go, where you _want_ to be, but you're... 

Afraid?

You want to jump into the Impala like always, slide into that passenger seat and hunker down, some classic rock blaring from the Audiovox.

You want it the way that it was.

_“It'll never be the same.”_

A horn blares, jolting you from your reverie. 

You'd been so wrapped up in your own head that you didn't even notice the mini-van.

You blink into the blinding glare of headlights.

You smile and wave, because that's what you're supposed to do. 

You _gotta_ move now. 

So you go on auto-pilot. 

You walk over to the Impala, wrap your hand around the cool metal handle of the passenger door, and depress the heavy button. 

The familiar creak of the door is instantly drowned out by the blare of “Walk Away” by The James Gang.

You force yourself to sit, slamming the door and staring straight ahead.

At least he waited for you.

That's something.

And he hasn't told you to get out of the car.

_Think! Sort it out!_

Dean shoves the shifter into reverse, the Impala's rear tires spinning on the wet pavement.

Another slam of the shifter, and Dean wrestles the Impala out of the parking lot and onto the main drag, wheels still spinning, the Impala's rear end fishtailing way over the double yellow.

Normally, you'd make a comment. 

Some smart remark about his driving, and Dean'd respond with some cut down and then he'd smirk and you'd both fall into that comfortable notch, your normal place.

But things aren't normal. 

So you say nothing. 

 

**~~~~~ * ~~~~~**

 

You keep your mouth shut as Dean drives, the back-and-forth of the Impala's windshield wipers blessedly calming. 

You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead. 

You give Dean some time. Maybe he'll crack first and break the smothering silence.

But he doesn't and just keeps driving.

Dean tromps on the gas as an upcoming signal goes yellow.

You sit bolt upright as the light goes red, and you instinctively throw out a hand brace it on the dash.

Horns blare and tires squeal as the Impala makes it through the intersection unscathed.

You spare Dean a quick glance but he doesn't return it.

You start to say something but Dean cranks up the radio, a barrage of electric guitar eliminating the possibility of any conversation.

Dean's got a super-short fuse and he lashes out whenever he feels he's been slighted or wronged. 

Worse, you figure it's Dean's pride that's stinging him. 

You'd fucked with his alpha-male image. 

You defied him, and you did what you thought was the right thing to do.

And that's what's _really_ pissing him off.

That, and Lucifer rising.

The Impala easily weaves her way through the slower-moving traffic as if she's doing it all by herself.

You force yourself to stare at the orgy of commercialism sliding by beyond the rain-streaked safety glass.

Box stores, strip malls, greasy fast food joints.

Pay day loans and bail bonds.

Garish back-lit signs and neon and flashing arrows. 

You don't even know the name of the road you're on.

Not that it matters, as it's virtually identical to scores of others you've been on in town after town, all across the country. 

Fake America. 

Empty America. 

You wonder, and not for the first time, if seeing it all burn to the fucking ground might not be such a bad idea after all. 

Could Lucifer be any worse than venture capitalists, greedy corporations, corrupt politicians or delusional evangelicals?

Perhaps a taste of the Apocalypse might be the kick in the ass that humanity needed.

You toy with the idea of bringing that point up, as a sort of ice-breaker, but immediately dispense with it.

Far too many ways _that_ could make things even worse.

But you need to say something.

Your head's pounding, every nerve howling for you to start talking, to set things to rights.

You watch Dean out of the corner of your eye, making sure he notices you looking.

Nuthin'.

The only sounds filling the Impala come from the radio: Metallica, Rush, Bad Company.

So you just sit there, your brain little more than a bloodbuzz.

Dean flicks on the turn signal, and you're pretty sure you're gaping like an idiot at he choice of motel.

The Hide-A-Way Motor Lodge. 

Not the usual Winchester haunt.

The place was too white-bread, too clean, too bright. 

Mini-vans and four-door sedans all over the parking lot.

A pathetic, Disneyesque tropical island theme. 

But you don't call Dean on it. 

You just sit there, staring straight ahead.

Dean kills the engine, and he's out of the car before the last notes of UFO's “Rock Bottom” fade away.

You watch Dean through the wide plate glass.

He doesn't look your way, but the rheumy old clerk does, staring right at you for a long moment.  
A second later, Dean strides through the open office door and glances all around, sizing up the place.

You watch as he looks in any direction but yours, and your gut twists into still more knots as Dean slides into the driver's seat.

It's like you're not even there.

He starts the car and UFO picks up where it left off.

Dean guides the Impala around the far side of the u-shaped complex, gliding into a parking space and throwing the shifter into park.

He kills the engine, and it's suddenly quiet. 

_Too_ quiet.

Dean sits there, his right hand poised on the ignition key, like he's waiting for something.

You hold your breath as your muddled brain toys with the notion that now might be a good time to make your move. 

Maybe he's calmed down enough to be reasonable.

You clear your throat but before you can say his name, Dean tosses a key into your lap. 

Then he's up and out of the car, slamming his door.

You sit there, staring at the room key as he opens the Impala's trunk.

_“I don't think I can trust you.”_

You watch as Dean opens the door to room 22.

And you've got the key to room 23.

The door to Dean's room slams, and an instant later, light floods through the picture window. 

Dean appears, one hand on each side of the open drapes.

He stares at you for a moment before yanking the drapes closed.

The finality of that simple motion makes you gasp in spite of yourself. 

You remember to breathe again.

You stare at the key to room 23 as fat raindrops plunk on the sheet metal of the Impala's roof.

You can't go on like this. 

You're usually the thoughtful, patient one.

Not this time. 

You've had your little spats and disagreements before, given each other the 'silent treatment'. 

This is different.

The stakes are too high.

You've got to go in there.

You've got to explain how it was.

You've got to tell him everything that you should've said when he first came back.

What it was like to watch as he was ripped apart by Hellhounds.

To hold him in your arms as the life drained out of him, his still-warm blood soaking right through your jeans.

What life was like without him.

Those empty days, weeks, months. 

How many times you screamed out his name, drunk and worthless, shaking your fists at the uncaring stars. 

You've gotta make him understand what it was like when you were all by your lonesome.

Rudderless and adrift.

Useless.

You need to help him understand that you _know_ you screwed up when you trusted Ruby. 

And you were weak when you fucked her.

That fact isn't insignificant to Dean, either.

But you used her too, to get to Lilith.

To keep the Seals from being broken.

You need to make him understand that no matter what, you were going to stop Lucifer escaping his Cage. 

You needed to stop Lilith, to save the world, and if that meant you had to suck down some demon blood?

So be it.

If that meant that you had to become something inhuman... a monster?

So be it.

If it all meant that you might not... probably wouldn't... survive?

So be it.

Without Dean, what did it matter?

You'd nearly made a deal with Lilith herself to save everything.

To save _him_.

But Dean didn't see your possible sacrifice the way you'd expected.

You'd defied him again, and it'd only made things worse.

If he'd only believed in you like you believe in him. 

You have to tell him all this, you have to make him understand. 

Everything you did, you did for the right reasons.

To save the World. 

To save the one person who matters above all else.

That's what you've gotta do.

_“I don't think I can trust you.”_

And just as you open the passenger door, the light in room 22 goes out.

 

**~~~~~ * ~~~~~**

 

You sit on the bed in room 23 and the rain's finally stopped.

You feel safe in the dark room, a thin sliver of sodium-vapor light from the parking lot washing across the nappy beige carpet.

There's no way you can sleep, so you mull over your options.

Dean'd been pretty clear. 

He didn't want to talk.

But _you_ need to.

You turn events of the last year over and over in your head, analyzing each and every decision.

How would things have changed if you'd taken a different path?

If you hadn't trusted Ruby?

What if you hadn't discovered how demon blood enhanced your abilities?

You go over it again and again, arriving at the same conclusions.

If you'd come clean with Dean at _any_ point, if you'd told him everything at any given time...

...he'd have lashed out, hit the roof, gone ballistic.

Just like he did when he locked you up in Bobby's panic room, binding you down like a demon.

Or a monster.

You stand up, your knees popping after sitting so long.

You shrug out of your jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

So you have to concede that Dean may be right. 

If you'd told him what was going down, then the end result _might_ have been different.

If you weren't in that abandoned church at that exact moment, then Lucifer wouldn't have been set free.

And Armageddon?

But it isn't that simple. It never is.

There was so much you didn't know.

So many forces were working against you.

You know now that the angels played a hand in the whole thing.

They'd filled Dean's head with delusions of grandeur, telling him that _he_ would save the world from the Apocalypse.

And who enabled you to escape from Bobby's demon-proof panic room? 

Angels, obviously.

It's pretty clear that you've both been played, manipulated all the way into next week.

How could you have prevented the outcome when every card had been stacked against you?

The combined forces of Heaven _and_ Hell made sure that both of you were exactly where and when they wanted you to be.

 _They_ made sure you destroyed Lilith.

 _They_ made sure that the first and last Seals were broken.

Demons and angels, they got what they wanted.

And the cherry on the cake: Dean's nothing but a vessel. 

A husk. 

A meatsack for Michael to invade and use.

And if Dean needed any proof as to Zachariah's true intentions, he had it now.

What sort of angel... a disciple of God... would so calmly remove someone's lungs on a whim?

Zachariah made Alastair look like a rank amateur.

Can't Dean see this? 

Hasn't he figured it all out for himself?

Dean _has_ to realize that against those odds, Lucifer's rising was inevitable.

Destined.

You wonder if Chuck is typing away at this very moment.

Maybe _he_ can tell you what you're gonna do next, how it'll all work out.

You rub your eyes with your fists. 

You're tired and your head's pounding. 

Everything aches.

You'd told Dean you were fine, that the cravings for blood were gone. 

But you're not so sure. 

There's something left behind.

Something still there, deep down.

Quiet, dormant. 

Dark.

You know that being filled with that much evil has left a mark.

There's no way that it couldn't have.

But you can't deal with that now, especially with Dean, no matter how much you want to.

That particular nugget'll have to wait.

Now, there's only one thing you need to do.

 

**~~~~~ * ~~~~~**

 

You pound on the door to room 22 again.

You know Dean's in there. 

You'd've heard him leave, and the Impala's right where you left it.

You pound on the door some more.

Light flickers behind the drawn curtains.

You know he's awake, because Dean _never_ sleeps with the TV on.

You wait, your heart again thumping away in your chest.

You're about to bang on the door again when it whips open, swinging wide.

You virtually jump over the threshold before, stumbling over something on the floor.

Your eyes adjust and you toe Dean's boots and jeans aside as you close the door.

Looking away from the harsh, wavering light cast by the mute TV, you note Dean's duffel and jacket splayed across the nearest bed.

The cover, blanket and sheets on the far bed are a tangled mess.

He'd tried to sleep.

You can make out a shadow beyond the trashed bed, and you go to it.

Some kind of Monster Truck competition plays out on the small screen.

Dean _hates_ Monster Trucks.

You don't say a word.

You want him to speak first. 

You need to know where to begin. 

You need him to give you a clue as to where to start.

The shadow takes shape, a grey-black silhouette against the inky abyss beyond.

Dean's back's to you.

You stop, just an arm's length away.

You blink furiously, telling yourself it's your eyes adjusting to the gloom and not the sting of impending tears. 

You step closer, and you can just make out the sheen of sweat glistening on Dean's shoulders, that his boxer briefs are soaked and askew, hanging low on his hips.

Dean's fists are clenched, his head bowed down.

Another step closer and you reach out, those few inches more like miles.

Suddenly unsure of yourself, you hesitate. 

Maybe you should have waited, given him more time.

But your hand moves anyway, your fingers closing over Dean's sweaty shoulder.

He tenses, and you hold your breath.

You're about to say his name when he turns around.

It's too late now; whatever happens happens.

Dean looks up to you, the light from the TV illuminating his features.

He's exhausted, his eyes heavy-lidded and puffy.

His cheeks are wet with perspiration or tears, you can't tell which.

You stare back, any words instantly dissolving on your tongue.

Dean's gaze is different than before, infinitely sad and somehow pleading. He swallows hard, his lips a thin line.

You nod and struggle as a wan smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

It's so simple and obvious, you nearly laugh out loud for not having realized it earlier.

Sure, Dean's annoyed and hurt that you defied him, that the whole damned planet's swirling down the crapper, and that you've both been played.

Dean knows it all, feels it like you do.

You both think you fucked up, let the other down.

And no matter how hard you've been beating yourself up over it, you know that Dean's been twice as hard on himself.

That's always been Dean's way, carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, trying to do it all himself, to go it alone.

So prideful and earnest, your Dean.

So maybe it's not as bad as you thought, and some of that horrible weight lifts from your shoulders.

A little more falls away when Dean smirks his crooked little smirk, and understanding passes between you as effortlessly as a summer breeze.

You watch as he takes a deep breath, almost as if to speak... and you move in.

But Dean's faster.

He's on you in an instant, both arms wrapped around your shoulders, his head buried in the crook of your neck.

You hug him back, with everything you've got.

You want him to know you're there. 

That you've always been. And always will be.

You've one hand at the small of his back, while the other cradles the back of his head.

His hot breath washes over you, and your skin breaks out in goose flesh. 

Dean looks up at you, and you see everything you need right there.

You're about to tell him it's okay and you understand when he mashes his lips to yours.

You eagerly respond as Dean's tongue demands entrance.

The kiss is hungry an desperate, and you fall into it willingly.

Dean pushes away just enough to slide both hands under your t-shirt.

He shoves it up, only breaking the kiss when the shirt can go no farther.

You raise your arms, and he pulls the shirt over your head, tossing it into the darkness.

As you move in for more, Dean shoves you backward.

You land on the bed, unbuttoning and unzipping your jeans while Dean removes your boots.

You laugh and it sounds strange, but you're working together again. 

Like always.

You finish with your jeans and start to slide them off; Dean finishes the job and sends them away after your t-shirt.

He climbs onto the bed, crawling toward you on all fours, like a predatory animal.

You scoot across the mattress, your Abercrombies sliding down as you go.

Dean rises to his knees, grabbing your shorts and yanking them down your thighs.

Your hard dick bobs and slaps against your stomach.

Dean inches closer, staring at your hard-on.

You awkwardly pull your legs up, bending your knees as Dean wrenches your shorts the rest of the way off.

He runs a hand along the underside of your long thigh as you straighten your legs out again.

You can't really make out Dean's face; the television is directly behind him and he's reduced to shadow again.

But you can tell he's hard too, the outline of his own erection straining against his briefs.

Dean leans down, his tongue teasing the underside of your dick.

You reach out with one hand, your fingers curling around the top of Dean's head and pulling him closer.

Dean licks and nibbles his way along your entire length, giving the swollen head of your cock a few swirls of his tongue.

It's not what you wanted to have happen, but fuck it. 

What's happening now is better than any conversation could have been.

You didn't understand that words weren't what was needed.

_Patience, young Skywalker._

Maybe things could get back to the way they were.

Maybe...

You reach down, curling the fingers of one hand around your dick as you watch Dean struggling a bit to remove his boxer briefs.

You still can't make out Dean's expression. 

He sits there on his haunches, watching as you lazily fist your cock.

Dean spits in the palm of his hand before stroking himself.

He moves over you, hovering above you.

It's been so long... you'd nearly forgotten how this feels.

How _Dean_ feels, all smooth, firm planes of lean muscle.

How confident yet gentle he can be, his thick, calloused fingers mapping and claiming every inch of your skin as his own.

Dean lowers onto you, sliding into position, the head of his cock nudging behind your balls.

You shift a bit, pulling your knees up and spreading your legs.

Dean slides his dick along the crack of your ass, grunting as he reaches down to tease your entrance with a seriously talented finger.

You wish you could see his face, to be able to stare into those hazel eyes, and you know for certain he's doing the same thing to you.

But he can see _you_.

With one hand still stroking yourself, you reach around to grasp Dean's ass with the other.

With a satisfied grunt Dean enters you, pressing his entire length inside.

You can't help but gasp, no matter how many times you've done this. 

The initial pain subsides and you let out a breath, your eyes locked onto Dean.

Dean wastes no time, establishing a smooth yet swift rhythm. He thrusts into you with increasing intensity, and you hoist your ass up, hooking your legs around Dean's upper thighs.

Dean grunts his approval, leaning down to capture your lips in a frantic kiss.

You clamp both hands onto his clenching ass as Dean drives into you, faster and harder with each stroke.

You're both sweating now, your bodies sliding together, chest to chest.

Dean breaks the kiss, his forehead to yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in hot, heavy gasps.

You want to say something, but when no words come, you remember again that none are needed.

Dean's thrusts are less smooth and even now, and you know he's close.

Hell, you are too.

You've _missed_ this. 

You've _needed_ this.

With a harsh intake of breath, Dean shudders to a stop.

You dig your fingers into Dean's ass as his entire body tenses.

You lift your head up, smashing your lips to his as you feel Dean's load fill you.

You wrap your arms around Dean, preventing him from pulling out.

You don't want him to withdraw just yet.

You need to feel him, to be completely connected for just a minute longer.

Dean collapses fully onto you, relaxed and breathless, his head resting on your chest.

You lie like that for only a moment before rutting into Dean, holding him close.

Dean pulls out of you, scooting up and aligning his softening dick with your hard-on.

Your legs drop to the mattress as you thrust harder and harder, the delicious slickness of Dean on top of you almost too much to bear.

Dean kisses and nibbles at the flesh just below your collarbone, pausing before taking a tiny fold of skin in his teeth. He sucks and laves away, ever harder, and you're about to yell his name when you come.

You can't breathe and your orgasm thunders from you, your back arching up as you writhe in the familiar whiteout of pleasurepain.

Dean suckles and bites for a moment longer, releasing your tortured skin with a wet kiss.

You're finally able to suck in some air and the motel room swims back into focus.

Dean leaves a trail of kisses along your jawline while grinding his hips to slide his now flaccid dick against yours.

You gasp, your cock still hyper-sensitive, but you let him keep at it. 

It's just too perfect.

It's Dean.

You turn your head and kiss your brother on the forehead, and he tilts his head up, leaving a chaste kiss on your lips.

The next instant, Dean's sliding away and off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom.

You don't mind the cooling spunk one bit, but Dean's always hated 'the sticky'.

You close your eyes, amazed at how boneless and sated you feel.

Something warm and wet plops onto your chest, and you open your eyes to see Dean toweling himself off at the foot of the bed.

He dutifully watches and waits as you use the soapy washcloth to clean up.

You throw him the washcloth, and he tosses you the towel.

You watch as Dean roots around the tangle of bedclothes for his boxer briefs, finally sighing in exasperation and jumping onto the bed.

You dump the towel and slide over to the left side of the mattress while Dean claims his side.

You turn on your side to face him, and he sidles up to you, his right hand under your pillow, the fingers of his left hand touching yours.

Dean's eyes close and in less than a minute, he's sound asleep.

You watch your brother for a long time, marveling at how peaceful Dean's features are.

So fucking beautiful.

Most of the weight's dissipated from your shoulders.

Most, but not all.

Dean _was_ right... you needed to trust him.

But more than that, you needed to trust in each other.

As brothers.

As Hunters.

That was the key, you finally realize.

Always has been.

If you and Dean remember to always believe in yourselves, you're unstoppable.

There's more to it than just that, of course.

There was more to it than just the machinations of Heaven and Hell, too.

More than words.

You shift to your side a bit, reaching behind you to pull a good section of sheet over your lower bodies.

You grab the remote and kill the Monster Truck crap, moving closer to Dean.

You close your eyes, hoping to fall asleep before the snoring starts.

Tomorrow... tomorrow will be a good day to talk.

 

**_~~~~~ fin ~~~~~~_ **


End file.
